


just the same but brand new

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Hook-Up, Knotting, New York City, Safer Sex, Suit Porn, Werewolf Allison Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey, you know I don't want you for your money," Allison says. "Or your territory. Just your—"</p><p>"Really?" Derek says, and Allison twists so he can see her sharp new grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just the same but brand new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starbolin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbolin/gifts).



> Not gonna lie, I wrote this because I read _The Reporter and the Billionaire Scottish Wolf Lord_ and was super annoyed by the egregious lack of knotting. Thanks to Ashe, Scout, Dira, languisity, and trinityclare for cheerleading, 8611 for a location consult, and Ashe and Eppy for betaing.  <3
> 
> For Luz!

— 1 —

Allison Argent is sitting on the steps of the courtyard, white tie undone and collar unbuttoned, frowning at the phone in her hands. The tip of her tongue is poking out from her lips; her shorn hair is barely long enough to brush her ears. After a moment, she shifts the phone in her hands so she can type more easily. If he didn't know better, Derek would think she had no idea he was watching.

"Come out of the shadows, you creep," she says after a few minutes. "Are you trying to be subtle?"

Derek steps out from behind a hedge and shrugs, broad and loose. "Not really."

Allison nods. "Hiding from the meat market?"

New York's werewolf community has a social season as complex and self-important as its human counterpart. Derek is stuck escorting Malia to an endless series of charity balls, operas, and gallery openings while Cora makes small talk with the other alphas of the five boroughs. The Hale pack is "visiting" on sufferance—Laura and Derek were welcome enough on their own, the tattered remnants of a once-vital pack—so their time here is limited. Cora's brokering alliances by night and taking classes at Hunter by day, Malia's at SVA, Erica's at Sarah Lawrence, and Boyd's at Syracuse upstate. Derek… is at loose ends.

He's also wealthy, attractive, and co-heir to a hefty chunk of territory in Northern California. "Hiding," Derek agrees.

Allison gets to her feet, dusting off her pants before she goes to fasten her collar. Her hands pause at her throat; she raises an eyebrow at Derek. "You want to get out of here?"

—

Victoria Argent is the newest jewel in New York's alpha crown. Derek sees Allison at these events all the time, he gets brunch with Chris once a month, but he and Victoria avoid each other. It's too weird. Victoria tried to kill Scott, Derek bit her, she faked her death, Scott bit Allison, Kate came back, Victoria killed her, and now they're uneasy allies with a shared past they want no one here to dig into. Derek glimpses her vivid shock of red hair as he passes through the ballroom; Allison doesn't stop to check in.

Cora shoots Derek a skeptical look as they pass her, but Derek just waves and moves on. He's out the door and halfway into the cab before he remembers to ask where they're going.

"77th and York," Allison says, more to the driver than to Derek. He slides onto the bench seat beside her and shuts the door. "Don't take the FDR."

The driver nods. "Got it." He pulls away from the curb into the traffic clogging Madison.

Derek buckles up, though Allison doesn't bother. They have different instincts; he's spent a lifetime pretending to be human, and Allison's still young enough to be reckless, to believe despite knowing better in her invulnerability against the mundane. "What's at 77th and York?" he says. "A bar?"

Allison snorts. "My apartment."

"Oh," Derek says.

"If that's okay," Allison says, backtracking, even as the cab changes lanes in a sharp swoop that shoves her against Derek's side. "I mean—there's a bar downstairs, but I'm 20, so—"

Derek shoots her a look." _You_ don't have ID."

"I'm trying to limit how often I break the law," Allison says.

They're still pressed together from hip to shoulder, trousers-to-trousers and jacket-to-jacket. Derek remembers when they first met, when he drove her home from the party—she was human, girlish and innocent in an outfit her mother picked out, her soft dark hair in waves to her waist. Now they're mirrors in their formal clothes and claws, side-by-side in another car in another city, another life. The history that stretches between them is one of their own making. Derek puts a hand on Allison's thigh; she leans her head against his shoulder.

"Hey, you know I don't want you for your money," she says. "Or your territory. Just your—"

"Really?" Derek says, and Allison twists so he can see her sharp new grin.

—

Allison's apartment is more like a cupboard, one of those 100-square-feet shoeboxes with a mini-fridge and a window for the fire escape. She has cotton fabric tacked to the walls instead of paint and gauze blossoming in puffs from the ceiling; there are NYU jogging shorts dangling from the edge of her laundry basket. The place is a fraction of the size of the Brooklyn floor-through that Derek shares with Cora and Malia, but it feels cozy rather than cramped. Allison takes Derek's jacket and hangs it on her coat rack, puts her own on a too-small hot pink hanger that still barely fits in her closet. She crams their top hats on top of the bookcase next to the door. "Make yourself comfortable," she says. "So—there's the bed."

The bed is a double, piled high with accent pillows. Derek sits and watches as Allison begins to undress, methodical and precise. She folds her tie, drapes her waistcoat over the back of her desk chair, and is starting to unbutton her braces from her pants before she pauses and looks his way. Derek reaches up, fumbles with his tie, and she bends down to help him. "Sorry," he says, tilting his head, baring his neck to her without thinking. Allison shakes her head, smooths her hands down from his throat to his shoulders, and then she's kissing him.

Her lips are soft, her touch light; Derek's hands are shaking. He puts them on her waist for an anchor. Allison pulls back after a moment and studies him with golden eyes. "Maybe this is too weird." One hand comes up to cup his jaw.

Derek ducks his head, tugging out of her grasp. He stares into the space between them, between their bodies. "Do you want me? Or just—someone?" Over the years, Derek has been a lot of people's someones. He might be terrible at relationships, but he's good at getting people off. When it's just bodies, it's easy.

Allison gets up onto the bed, knees on either side of him so she's practically in his lap. "You're not a stranger I just picked up at a party," she says, soft enough that only a wolf would catch. "Jesus, Derek."

He drags his thumb across the wool covering her hip, and then he pulls her close enough to bite at her mouth. If she wants him, she'll get him. As much of him as she wants.

 

— 2 —

The first werewolf that Allison ever saw was chained to a metal grid in a burned-out hole of a basement. She didn't know what she was looking at, at first—a man, except his face was all wrong, his fingernails long, curved, and his whole body spread taut in agony before her like a medieval martyrdom painting. "What is he?" Allison asked as Derek twitched and roared. Kate laughed, turned up the voltage, said, "To me, he's just another dumb animal."

Dad is out of town, so Allison is her mom's escort tonight. "You look beautiful," Mom says as she ties Allison's bow tie, then steps back to admire her handiwork. She's the one who picked out the tailcoat, who took Allison to a salon after she hacked off her hair when Kate died the second time. "Don't talk to the Whitneys so much tonight."

"Uh huh," Allison says, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes.

She spends most of the night texting Lydia from the bathroom, and later, from the courtyard. _Mom is a nightmare and last day of reading period is tomorrow and I can't get drunk_

Her phone buzzes a few seconds later. _I'm drunk rn_

Lydia's at Caltech, three time zones and three thousand miles away. _It's 6pm_ , Allison texts back.

She gets a photo of a huge margarita in return. The salt on the rim is half gone and the glass is smudged with red lipstick.

Across the courtyard, the box hedge rustles in the breeze, almost enough muffle the soft footfalls behind it. Allison catches the scent that the air carries and has to tamp down a smile. _Guess who's lurking in the bushes across from me so classic_

 _IS CH THERE TOO GIVE HER KISSES FOR ME._ Wow, Lydia is wasted. _PS if you're that bored you should just go for the d_

Allison snorts. _DH?_

 _HIS D_ , Lydia says. _DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE GRAPH_

No, Allison has forgotten the statistical model Lydia made to justify her thing for werewolf dick. _Lol_

Lydia says, _DO IT FOR SCIENCE_

—

Allison doesn't exactly need science as a motivator.

Derek's scent drifts toward her again, familiar, deeper, woodsy musk and shirt starch. If she listens carefully, she can hear his heartbeat over the jumble of voices in the room behind her. She's always had that intuition, that tickle at the back of her neck that she trusted to warn her of danger; the difference now is that she has other senses that reach just as far. Allison lifts her head and says, "Come out of the shadows, you creep."

They're both in black and white, perfectly tailored, a matched pair. This is all so much theater, meaningless pageantry—the wolves dancing in sheep's clothes inside, Derek chained to a fence, back arched with the force of his roar. Somewhere in between is the reality: claws and soft skin, the beating hearts beneath that drum them through the moon's tides. Allison leads Derek through the room with head held high. She's no longer the head of her family, and neither is Derek. That doesn't make them toothless accessories.

In her apartment, Allison doesn't waste any time before she begins to strip down. She has her hands on the buttons at her hips before she registers that Derek is still dressed, bow neat around his neck and feet still encased in glossy court pumps. "Sorry," he says, catching her eye. As if he has something to apologize for, to _her_ of all people.

She kisses him, and it's easy, sweet—just like Derek beneath his alpha bluster. Allison's never thought about kissing him, although she did think about his dick when Lydia made that chart. When she pulls back, Derek is watching her again. She can't help touching him, fingers gentle against his jaw. "Maybe this is too weird," she says.

Derek says, "Do you want me? Or just—someone?"

"You're not a stranger I just picked up at a party," she says, low, as she climbs onto his lap. Then she leans in, grazes her lips against his throat, and inhales, drinking in his scent, brushing their cheeks together to mark him as her own.

—

They finish undressing together, companionable. Allison lays their costumes out over her one chair in layers, kicks their silk stockings toward their shoes, tucks Derek's cufflinks into his jacket pocket and stows her own in the jewelry box on top of her dresser. They're Dad's, square-cut garnet set in Argent silver.

Derek comes up behind her and puts his hands on her waist, strokes them down her hips, tentative. The first move of his own he's made. He nuzzles her neck, kisses the curve of her jaw. "What do you want?"

"What do you like?" Allison leans back against him and into his touch. She wants him everywhere, on top of her, beneath her, inside her. She wants to stop thinking about it. "You could knot me."

"Okay," Derek says, too fast. "Sure. If you're sure."

It's not like Allison hasn't done it before—she contributed to the dick size chart, too. That was when she was human, though, in high school, just a handful of times—it took so long to warm up to, and there was always the danger of getting caught. She hasn't been knotted since; there's been nobody she's wanted inside her for a solid twenty minutes afterward. So she takes Derek's hand and presses it over her heart, as if he needs the contact to assure him her pulse is steady. "I am," she says. "Do you believe me now?"

Derek ducks his head down to her neck and bites her, dull human teeth, and Allison goes taut as a bowstring. Her toes curl against the hardwood floor, her back arches; she drops her head back against Derek's shoulder. After long moments, the bite gentles into a lingering kiss. Allison's still holding Derek's hand over her heart. She laces their fingers together, draws them down to her breast. "Bed," Derek says.

She climbs in first, kicking the crumpled sheets down against the footboard. Derek lies down next to her, slides one arm beneath her head. If they were any closer, they'd be cuddling. Allison leans in, rests her forehead against Derek's for a moment before she presses her lips to his. The bite on her shoulder throbs. Impulsively, she shifts; her longer teeth nip at Derek's lower lip, and she adjusts her grip on his side so her claws don't draw blood. Derek kisses her through the shift, deliberate and steady, cupping the back of her head in his hand to pull her closer.

"Has anyone told you what it means?" he says, letting her nudge him onto his back; she trails her fingers through the sparse hair on his belly, drawing back her claws as she goes. "The knot. To give it."

Allison wraps her fingers around Derek's dick. He's only half-hard, but already responding to her touch, dick flushing against the dark thatch of his pubic hair and his pale skin. "It's part of your—our—biology. Traditional mating stuff."

Derek bites his lip and digs his fingers into the sheet as he pushes up into Allison's grip. He grabs her hand, stilling her motion. "Trust," he says. "Safety. You can't defend yourself, you're—vulnerable."

"So, it's something that allies do, then?" Allison strokes his knuckles.

Derek shakes his head. "Normally it's something you do—at home." His cheeks are as pink as the head of his dick beneath their hands. His belly twitches when she moves her palm to rest over his navel.

Allison says, "I'll keep you safe."

—

Derek goes down on her, precise and practiced, wringing an orgasm out of her before she quite knows what's happening. "Condom?" he says, while she's still sprawled on her back, lungs heaving.

"Um, yeah, over there—" Allison gestures vaguely toward her purse. She doesn't bring guys home, normally. "Thanks," she adds as Derek trudges off in that direction, dick stiff against his belly. Normally guys look ridiculous like that, but Derek looks like an underwear model minus the underwear.

She watches through half-lidded eyes while Derek rolls the condom on. This is not the time in her life to get knocked up from kinky werewolf mating sex, though imagining the look on her mother's face is satisfying. Allison rolls onto her side and lets Derek crowd up behind her, pushing her towards the wall. He says, "Is this okay?" His latex-covered dick is pressed up against her ass, his hand sliding up her belly.

"Works for me," Allison says. She's always been on top when she was knotted before— but she can already tell how good it's going to be, slow and lazy, Derek doing most of the work. She hitches up her leg and reaches down to guide him into her.

The night noise of the city drops away and the world narrows down to just this: Derek exhaling hot against the curve of her shoulder, his hand cupped over her still-swollen clit, the gentle rolls of his hips pushing him inside her. He gasps when Allison clenches around his dick, when she reaches back to rake her nails against his thigh. Allison's throat is choked with the scent of them, sex and sweat and heat. "You're so good." Derek's lips graze her ear. "You feel so—you're amazing."

Allison closes her eyes, bears down on him, and says, "You're perfect."

Derek ties her then, swells up inside her with a sharp, punched sigh. When Allison was human, this was the part that hurt—the last, final stretch, which seemed impossible right up until it was fact—but her new body adjusts without complaint. Derek fills her, fits her perfectly, and when she grinds against his knot, he works at her clit until she lets out a moan like a sob and comes along with him.

 

— 3—

Afterward, Derek spends the night. He doesn't mean to, except that he's comfortable and his body's thrumming with contentment, and Allison is dozing, too. So Derek wraps his arm around her waist and tucks his face against her throat, still knotted inside her.

When he wakes up, it's just to her hand on his thigh, gently pushing him back. "You've gotta take off the condom," Allison says. "Just—it'll make a mess."

"Ah, yeah," Derek says weakly. In the end, she has to help him, tying off the end and placing it delicately inside the trash, ballooned with jizz. He's asleep again before she crawls back into bed beside him.

—

In the morning, Allison throws on a worn t-shirt that says DAYTONA BEACH in glittering yellow letters while Derek puts on his suit. She ties his tie and stands back to survey him, hands on her hips, skin luminous in the dawn light. "You look ridiculous. I hope all my neighbors see you."

In his toe-pinching shoes and slightly crumpled dress clothes, Derek feels ridiculous, too. "It's Saturday morning," he says. "They're probably still asleep."

"Whatever." Allison shifts on her bare feet. A car honks outside; someone upstairs shouts down to the driver.

Derek says, "I think it could be for allies, too."

Allison frowns at him for a moment before her brow smooths, mouth twitching up at the corner. Then she turns and reaches up on the bookcase for his top hat. Holding it out, she says, "I'll see you on Wednesday for the Housing Works benefit. If you wear red, we'll match."

 

— 4—

Midway through her cram session for 19th Century French Lit, Allison's phone buzzes. _seriously? that's an OUTLIER,_ Lydia says.

The leader of Allison's section frowns at her; Allison shoves her phone back into her pocket and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
